


Life’s Just One Big Fucking Experiment.

by Onedayillhaveahouseboat



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Addict Peter Parker, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Peter Parker Meets the Avengers, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter is a Little Shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:35:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27379585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onedayillhaveahouseboat/pseuds/Onedayillhaveahouseboat
Summary: Six months. Peter had been living with the Avengers for six months. Six shitty, lonely, confusing, fucked up months. And that's saying a lot because if there's anything Peter Benjamin Parker is an expert in, it's shitty, lonely, confusing, fucked up stuff.Fury sends Spider-Man to live with the Avengers.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 164





	1. Cornered

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so hear me out. I wrote this story last night and I know it’s kinda scattered. There’s not much dialogue, but it’s coming I swear. The first few chapters are a lot of backstory. So plz tell me if anything doesn’t make sense or if it’s total trash thx

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. God, why can't he just have one day? Just one, conflict free, laid back, easy day. This is a prime example of Parker Luck. Woke up late, missed the train, got his shit kicked in by Flash and his Neandertals, and to top it all off, armed robbery with hostages in Brooklyn. Somehow Peter managed it all, only coming out with a small stab wound in his lower abdomen, and a maybe, no definitely, dislocated shoulder. Peter debated spending a few more hours patrolling, but his stomach twisted from hunger and probably blood loss. So no. Nope, absolutely not, he was gonna go to his favorite rooftop and collapse dramatically in his web hammock. As he swung himself back towards Queens, his enhanced hearing picked up the low buzzing of framilier comms. He could hear the agents' indistinguishable chatter over the ear pieces. He inwardly groaned, before sending himself to a skidding halt on a rooftop below. SHIELD has been after him lately, it was pretty annoying.

"Just what I needed right now..", Peter muttered to himself. Taking a few deep breaths, he reached his arm around grasping his shoulder and popping it back into place.

"Son of a bitch!".

"Ya' know Spidey, we've got a whole team of super experienced, super doctors back at HQ." Agent Hill emerged from the roof access door. Peter took a steadying breath, before standing up straight. Confidence is key, Parker.  
“Agent What’s Your Name! Good to see you again, but I have to admit. This is getting kinda creepy, you seem kinda obsessed with me. And don’t get me wrong! I’m flattered...It’s just, well, I’m a married man-“ His spidey sense screamed, and Peter's wrist shot up, pointing at the roof access behind him, seconds later the door whipped open.

"Oh come on! Can't a spider catch a break, I mean for fuck's sake!". He should probably stop complaining when bad stuff happens, he keeps jinxing himself. 

Nick Fury stepped out onto the roof, sending him a curt nod.

Peter returned his nod.” Captain Hook” 

He could have sworn held seen Agent What’s Her Names lip twitch upwards at his joke. This eyepatch guy didn’t look amused though.

“Spider-Boy”

“It’s Spider-Man”.

“Not in those pajamas you aren’t.”

Ouch. Not everyone is a billionaire, he had limited resources. This guy didn’t have to be a dick. 

Peter's patience had grown thin in record time, he never reacted well to getting cornered. 

“I don’t appreciate being corned, so get to the point, Pissken. What do you want from me?”.

He raised an eyebrow to his outburst. He looked amused. God his life was just getting weirder and weirder.

“We’ve had our eyes on you, kid”.

“We? Who’s we?”

“The Avengers, SHIELD, and just about anyone else with an internet connection”, he pulled up a file- not just a file though. His file. The hologram floated in front of Peter's face, and he skimmed it.

Yeah that was him. The basic information was accurate, he cringed a little at his 8th grade yearbook picture. Peter read further down, stopping over the words Avengers Initiative. 

Avengers Initiative. 

Holy shit. 

Peter's head shot up to meet Eyepatchs’ eye. Eyes? Whatever. He sputtered, heart hammering in his chest. Was...was this a recruitment? Was he, Peter Parker, being recruited for the Avengers?

“I- wha...uhm”, He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. Calm down, don’t act stupid. “You want me to, to be an Av-“.

“No. The Avengers don’t hire toddlers”, Peter shot him a dirty look. “It’s an internship, not a job offer.”

Peter blinked. “An internship? You want me to intern for the Avengers?”

“Your just a kid-“ Oh no, Peter could not handle the ‘your a kid’ talk right now.

“A kid who can catch a bus with his bare hands!”

Agents What’s Her Face pipped in from the side. “Exactly. You’re an enhanced teenager with a troubled history fighting crime completely unsupervised. That makes you a liability.”

Peter blinked. Troubled history? Really? He was not a liability. Who did he think he was, saying that? He moved towards the edge of the roof, totally done with this conversation. His sense flared up again, and a group of red dots appeared on his body. 

“What the fuck?” Peter deadpanned.

“You’re talented, Parker. And that’s not a compliment I throw out lightly. Accept the internship position, get a gear upgrade, cooperate with my oversight of your crime fighting extracurriculars, it’s that easy.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then you’d have to kiss the whole secret identity thing goodbye. Agents would be sent to detain you and instead of being offered an internship you’d be looking at ten to twenty in a maximum security SHIELD facility for enhanced criminals” A new file popped up on the screen. The Raft?

“The Raft is an underwater prison created for the sole purpose of detaining enhanced individuals”

It was silent for a moment, as Peter watched and read through the file. Images of some easily recognizable criminals popped up. Was that Whiplash? Peter looked between the two strangers. 

“Prisoners have no contact with the outside world...and they never return to it”.

Okay Peter was officially shook now. He couldn’t just move in with the Avengers, right? But he also was not digging the whole Raft thing. 

“I’m in foster care.”

“You sleep on rooftops”. Wow creepy. They really were watching him.

“I don’t live there, but the social workers don’t know that”.

“We can discuss details on the way to the tower.”

Peter looked out over the New York skyline, making out Avengers tower in the distance. He”s a little lost, but fair enough. Sometimes you just gotta roll with the punches. 

“Fine.”


	2. Trauma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Backstory

To just say a lot of shitty stuff had happened to Peter Parker, would be a gross understatement. He had files upon files of trauma stored inside of him. Where could he even start? His parents dying in a plane crash when he was five? Or what about being hauled off to live with his Aunt May and Uncle Ben afterwards, a genuine, kind-hearted couple who never wanted kids. No matter how good they were to him, or how welcome they made him feel, Peter knew he was a burden. Aunt May and Uncle Ben wanted to travel the world, see anything and everything together. They didn't want to work 80 hour weeks, supporting a little boy who wasn't even their own, living on the outskirts of Queens in a dingy apartment complex. 

He was a quiet, reserved kid even before his parents passed, so naturally, he kept his head down. Didn't give May and Ben any trouble, did his chores and schoolwork. By the time he was seven, he went practically unnoticed. May was busy with long shifts at the hospital. Ben worked overtime at the station, he was gunning for the Captain's job. Peter spent a lot of time alone. He woke up alone, made his breakfast and went to school alone, did his homework alone, and went to bed alone. It sounds sad, but it probably did wonders for Peter's character development. He was fiercely independent. He knew how to take care of himself, and he liked it that way. And sure it was lonely at times, but he had Ned at school all day, and the pretty Librarian, Ms. Shelby, who let him borrow extra books.

He spent his time reading. Peter couldn't remember a time in his life he ever struggled with it. He read at a highschool reading level. At seven. So yeah, he could read. But he loved science books the most. It started with easy stuff, like My First Big Book of Space, The Magic School Bus, and National Geographic magazines. But by eight he was reading Newton's Principles, A Brief History of Time, Prime Obsession, and most importantly, Dr. Bruce Banner's dissertation on gamma radiation. It was a turning point in Peter's life. He knew from that moment on he wanted to be a scientist. He wanted to change the world. So he kept learning, and reading, and eventually experimenting. That's when it all went downhill. 

He'd never been in trouble before. Mainly because he never had any reason to step out of line. But if he was going to be a scientist, he needed to start sciencing. So one day after school, while his Aunt and Uncle were working, he started his very first experiment. Peter gathered the cleaning supplies out from under the sink and onto the table. Opening his My First Chemistry Kit Santa left him, he pulled on his goggles and arranged the test tubes. Now, looking back this was ridiculously stupid, but he was eight so what do you expect? He began to mix different concoctions of the chemicals into the test tubes. Then he waited, ready to write down his observations. Peter doesn't remember passing out at the dining room table, he doesn't remember his Aunt coming home or the drive to the ER. He just remembers being sick and scared and angry his experiment tried to kill him. 

After the Chlorine Gas Fiasco of 2009, his Aunt and Uncle decided he couldn't be trusted alone anymore. And so they hired a babysitter.   
His name was Skip, he was a senior who lived in the building across the street.   
He was a monster.  
When Skip started babysitting him, Peter shut down. He didn't read anymore. He didn't try any more experiments or daydream about becoming a scientist. He didn't even engage with Ned at school. He just stopped. His Aunt and Uncle weren't around enough to notice. Peter wasn't sure they'd care.  
Skip babysat Peter for a year and a half.  
He was nearly 10 years old when Skip went off to college. 

Peter figured that once Skip was gone, he'd be free. He just wanted to breathe again. But he wasn't ever that same after Skip. Peter was angry. He was tired of being shot down all the time. Tired of being so small and helpless. He didn't know what to do or how to cope. So he acted out. It's like a switch flipped somewhere inside his brain. He shoved back when someone shouldered him on the street. He flipped off strangers and pocketed candy bars from bodegas. He was loud and reckless. He couldn't be bothered to care about school anymore, he was a smart kid though. It's not like he had to try. What did the teachers care if he didn't turn in his math homework when he could ace the unit test in a couple of minutes? 

Then May and Ben did notice. Not that he felt like he was dying inside, or that life was pointless and he'd never be happy again. They didn't notice the blood or the scratches or the scars that Skip left behind. Peter didn't know what May and Ben thought was going on with him, but at least they noticed. And for the first time since he'd been sent to live with them, they did something about it. Peter had been ecstatic, tugging them through the Stark Expo. He eye's darting around, afraid to miss anything. He doesn't remember exactly when everything went south. Uncle Ben was paying a man at the toy booth, while Peter dressed up in his new Iron Man helmet and little plastic gauntlets. The screeching was loud, crashes, and booms sounding off. People ran around, sweeping Peter away in the chaos. He had seen the robot, and was running out of the crowds to get a closer look. But then it was in front of him. This thing wasn't Iron Man, that was obvious. Because Peter was Iron Man. He was a superhero. He was invincible and strong, and nobody could hurt him. Peter raised his gauntlet, and then BAM! He wasn't surprised he'd blasted it away, he was Iron Man of course.

But then he wasn't. Because Iron Man was behind him.

"Nice work, kid."

He was an idiot to ever believe he could be strong. He wasn't Iron Man, he was just Peter Parker.

He started smoking at ten and a half. Stealing them from Ben's pants pockets, only a few at a time. He didn't like smoking at first, it tasted worse than it smelt. But the coughing and spitting turned into careful, short drags. Soon he was actually inhaling and finding himself more addicted to nicotine, than the adrenaline rush he got from stealing. Peter figured this was his best experiment yet. So when Ben caught on, he picked Peter up in his police cruiser from school. Shoving the old shoebox Peter kept all the things he shouldn't have into his lap.

"You're on thin ice, Pete." 

Peter had huffed, crossing his arms and looking out the window. “What do you care?” The car was tense for a moment.

“You’ve got a sharp head on your shoulders, Pete. I’m not gonna let you throw that away. You can do a lot of good things with those smarts, it doesn’t matter how big you are, or how much money you got, ok? None of that. You have a gift.” His uncle paused, seeming to consider his next words. 

“With a great power, comes a great responsibility.”

Peter had scoffed, the words were cheesy. He turned his gaze back out the window, ignoring his Uncle.

He only had a few weeks left before summer, but he was grounded for two months. They never hired another babysitter, thank god. Couldn't afford too, Peter figured. So he took to climbing down the fire escape each day. Walking around Queens, farther and farther every time. Until he was bold enough to hop on the subway. He'd take trains around, exploring the city, looking for something outlandish and reckless to do. He'd steal food from the corner store's he passed by, never the same one twice. Pick pocketed strangers at busy crosswalks, bribed homeless guys to buy him packs of Newports. It's a miracle he never got himself caught or jumped or kidnapped. New York was a dangerous city. It's a good thing Peter Parker went by unnoticed. It was better that way. 

And then one day, everything changed. He entered a whole different level of fucked up. He'd been walking around Brooklyn, looking for an alley to smoke a couple of ciggs he'd got off an older boy at the skatepark. He found one unoccupied and slipped in, settling himself upon a dumpster. Peter lit a cigarette, inhaled deep, and closed his eyes. He thought about his mother, wondered if she could see him right now. He wondered what he'd be doing if his Mom and Dad had lived. Playing legos with Ned? Running around a backyard somewhere, baking cookies with Mom, or playing catch with Dad. Not that it mattered at all. His parents were dead. Peter wasn't at home, he was sitting on some alley dumpster, giving himself lung cancer. A firm hand grabbed his knee, shaking him out of his depressing daydream. 

"What the heck!", Peter kicked his legs out, dropping his smoke, and rolled himself off the dumpster. He hit the dirty concrete with a thud.   
Looking down on him was an older man, his face scraggly and smugged with god knows what. He held out a bottle, looking at Peter expectantly.   
"Huh?", Peter picked himself up, looking at the man dumbly.  
"I'll trade ya'. Got anymore smokes?". He stepped closer, wiggling the bottle in front of Peter's face. Not just a bottle, though. That was alcohol. A yellowed plastic container, bright red cap. A honey-colored liquid sloshed around inside. Just like the ones his Aunt and Uncle kept on top of the refrigerator, along with old bottles of wine they'd collected from holiday party's over the years. They'd never drank in front of Peter. He supposed it was because they always had somewhere to be. A drunk cop or nurse was no good. 

Peter considered the trade. What did he have to lose? He'd gotten this far anyway, what did it matter if he stepped it up a notch? For science. It was an experiment. How far can Peter Parker push it? How long before he breaks? 

He shoved the bottle between his waistband and made his way back to Queens. His stomach filled with butterflies, and he wrung his hands nervously. The bottle scared him. Peter thought about the drunk people he'd seen on T.V. They acted funny, stumbling around, with bloodshot eyes. Some were loud-mouthed, yelling, and pushing. Others were obnoxious, laughing uncontrollably while they made a fool of themselves. Peter figured that if he got drunk, he'd become a whole new person. The exact opposite of Puny Peter Parker. That sounded like a pretty sweet deal. So when he made it back to his bedroom and pulled out the bottle. He hardly hesitated. Twisting off the cap, putting his nose to the top. It smelt like the brown Listerine his uncle bought. Peter absolutely hated the brown Listerine. 

It took Peter a half hour to down the entire, 750 ml bottle of whiskey. 

Peter was numb, his eyelids felt heavy, his movements sloppy. It took him a couple tries to make it onto his bed. Then he noticed after however long he spent staring at his ceiling, that it was quiet. His head. His thoughts. His brain. Everything went quiet. He didn't think about his parents like he did whenever he smoked. He didn't hear his Mom singing to him at bedtime, or picture his Dad at the stove, flipping pancakes one Sunday morning. Peter smiled. He felt genuinely happy for the first time in what seemed like forever. 

He was lucky his Aunt and Uncle both had graveyard shifts that night. Because he wouldn't have been able to explain why he woke up suddenly, head piercing, stumbling to the bathroom. Vomiting until there was nothing left to expel. Throat raw, tears streaming down his face, his nose stuffed and breathing labored. Peter had forgotten about the whiskey, he thought instead he was dying. Alone on the bathroom floor. He passed out, cheek on the toilet seat, never expecting to wake back up.

Peter did wake up. Eventually remembering the homeless guy, and the bottle, and most importantly, the quiet. His new experiment was called, How much burning liquid did he need to drink to find the quiet, without killing himself? It took him a few weeks to figure it out. Between finding the booze, getting it home, and making sure his Aunt and Uncle never found out. But by the time he was back in school, he knew exactly how much he needed to drink to float by quietly. He stole money anywhere he could, from strangers wallets on the street, to even searching through teachers' unattended purses at school. It was harder to get money than it was to find someone to buy him what he needed. Peter had done his research, he knew he needed to be careful or he'd end up with alcohol poisoning. Peter wasn't stupid. He was a scientist.

By the time he was twelve, he was at least tipsy 24/7. And when his Aunt and Uncle were working for especially long stretches of time, he was blackout drunk. Peter drank and drank, and drank. He didn't think he had a problem, it was just an experiment. 

Surprisingly enough his grades didn't drop, the work wasn't challenging. He got through it quickly, earning himself praise from his teachers. He still isolated himself, kept his head down, wasn't even a little motivated to make friends. He didn't think it bothered him, the sad glances Ned sent him, or the punches to the shoulder some douche called Flash gave him. He was numb, right? That was the result of the experiment. It was the result he wanted. Right? Peter wasn't so sure anymore. Everything hurt, it didn't matter if he was wasted or not. 

Peter hadn't been excited about anything in a while, but he was very much looking forward to his class's end of the year trip to Oscorp.   
He drowned some Fireball before heading to school that day. Peter got on the bus, looking for an open spot. His eyes landed on Ned, who smiled and waved at him. God, he didn't deserve Ned. Ned should hate him, he was a terrible friend. He took a seat next to the boy anyway, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He could feel the migraine he'd woken up with slip away, and the buzz set in.

"You wanna see something cool?", Ned asked. Peter turned his head, looking at the lego Chewbacca he held out. 

"Chewbacca?". It'd been so long since he'd really talked to Ned. I'd been even longer since he'd thought about Star Wars. Another reminder of how much he changed, how far gone he was.

"Yeah...", Ned looked at Peter shyly. "Did you see the new StarWars Rebels episode?".

"...no" Ned's face fell. 

"Tell me what happened?"

Ned spent the rest of the bus ride carefully explaining the episode to Peter, not leaving out any detail. It was nice, Peter thought, he almost felt normal again.

They buddied up for the field trip. Ned did most of the talking, not seeming to mind that Peter was so distant. They made it through the informational tours, explaining Oscoprs' history. It was dull and Peter was especially glad when lunch rolled around. He was starting to lose his buzz, feeling a thud in his head. 

"-and then Fulcrum was all like, you gave us hope in the darkest- '', Peter liked listening to Ned's Star Wars rambling, but his head was killing him and the bologna sandwich was making his stomach turn.

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom". Peter cut Ned off and headed out the cafeteria door.

He could feel the bile rising in his throat, but he couldn't seem to find the bathroom. 'Don't puke, don't puke, don't puke, don't puke', he pushed himself through a set of double doors. 

The room was set up like a conservatory. Plants of all shapes and sizes spread out everywhere. It was humid, and smelt earthy. Definitely didn't help with Peter's nausea. He decided that if he really was gonna puke his guts out at Oscorp, this wasn't a bad place to do so. Rushing up and dipping his head into the first plant he could, he let loose. It wasn't until a couple of minutes later that the gagging stopped. Standing for a moment, he tried to catch his breath. 

Peter felt a prick on the back of his neck.

Nothing major, but his hand swatted instinctively. He wiped the now squished spider onto his jeans, wrinkling his nose in disgust, and headed back to the cafeteria.

He thought nothing of it, it was just a stupid spider. No big deal.  
He blamed the sweating and headache that followed him throughout the rest of the field trip on the drinking, the ache in his bones too. But by the time he made it into his apartment, his body was on fire, he could hardly stand. He passed out fast in his bed, hoping for the first time that his Aunt and Uncle would come home sooner rather than later. 

He jolted straight up, gasping for air. His vision buzzing, the light that seeped in through his window was blinding. An odd ringing in his ear made it impossible to distinguish any sounds around him. Peter squeezed his eyes shut, tumbling out of the bed to peel the very uncomfortable shirt off his back, it was drenched in sweat. Taking a few more gasping breaths, his ringing seemed to dull down but a knocking sound made him flinch and shove his fingers into his ears. What was happening to him? This wasn’t unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Definitely not a hangover, was he dying? Is this even real-

“NYPD! Anyone home? Peter Parker?”

He stood up straighter, finally feeling a little more in control of his own body. It still took him a second to process the words though. 

“NYPD?”, Peter mumbled to himself, shaking his head and staggering out into the hallway. What were they doing here? He made it to the door and briefly considered not answering. Wait, no. Uncle Ben was a cop. How could he be so stupid, how could he forget that? What was happening to him? Peter tugged the lock back and swung open the door, meeting two uniformed officers gaze. They looked at him funny, maybe he was dead. Maybe he was a ghost, and they’d just witnessed a door swing open by itself-

“Jesus, son. Are you alright?”

Okay so he’s not dead. Good to know.

Peter looked down at himself. His pants were drenched in sweat and blotched with what could only be old puke. He hadn’t remembered throwing up in bed though, or at all. God life was getting weirder and weirder. 

“I’m fine, what are you doin’ here? Is Uncle Ben here too? Where’s my Aunt?”

The adults gave him a strange look, the same kinda look Aunt May and Uncle Ben had given him after the plane crashed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys plz comment


	3. Drugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wants to save lives.

To say the least, Peter hadn’t coped well with his Aunt and Uncle's death.

To say the most, Peters alcoholism took a fast dive into the black hole that is narcotics.

Can you really blame him?

Yes. 

Yeah, you can. For such a smart kid, Peter Parker really was throwing his life away. They do say addiction is a disease, thought. But whatever.

He lost his parents, lived through the Skip ordeal, stumbling into substance abuse and juvenile delinquency, gained superhuman abilities, and lost all his living relatives before his thirteenth birthday. 

And yeah, you heard that right.

Superhuman abilities.

He’d been thrown into foster care quickly. His first placement was a group home in Brooklyn. And in true Peter fashion, he kept his head down. Minded his business and cooperated with the adults. He tried not to think about his grief, it was easy to distract himself too. Because he could stick to things. Like really stick. And he could run and jump and lift dumpsters. So instead of sneaking down a fire escape to get drunk, he left to deserted buildings and empty alleys. He kept a journal to record his observations, he felt like a scientist again. He had enhanced strength, speed, agility, reflexes, and senses, he could stick to and climb walls. He’d also noticed a strange hum, sorta like a sixth sense that seemed to only manifest when he was about to get hurt. Whether it be one of the older boys sneaking up behind him, or the balls of paper Flash hurled at him in history. But here was the coolest part, the sixth sense didn’t only work when he was in trouble, Peter could sense it for others too.

He’d been walking back from school one day, looking for a wall to scale when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prick up. Life was in slow motion and suddenly his head was snapping to the side, his eyes fell on a little girl just stepping off the curb. Her mother didn’t seem to notice, her shoulder holding her phone to her ear as she dug through her purse. Jaywalking in New York was a practiced art, traffic was non-stop. This little girl was definitely gonna get hit. He hadn’t even really noticed his feet we’re moving while he assessed the situation. Next thing he knew, he was throwing the little girl out of the way of a cab. He’d grabbed her and shoved her to the curb before he felt the impact of the car hit his body, throwing him onto the hood before the driver slammed the breaks. Peter tumbling off the car to the left and hit the sidewalk.   
Every sense he had was blaring at him, he rolled over with a grunt. 

“Hey, hey kid! Kid- oh jeez someone- somebody call 911!”, a man was in his face. God his breath smelt bad, garlic? Fishy garlic? Peter shoved the mans hands off of him, peeling himself off the street and taking off through a random alley.

He slid down the brick wall, putting his head between his knees in an attempt to calm his senses. Maybe if he had goggles, something to drown out all the extra input. Maybe he’d do this again. Save someone. Why shouldn’t he? He had these powers, it’d be selfish not to, right? Ben’s face flashed in his head. 

‘With a great power, comes a great responsibility’

The words sunk in deeper than they had all those years ago. 

Peter had it all planned out in his head as he sat there, a costume and goggles, and some sort of way to get around. Like Iron Man. But what? As the adrenaline died down, sharp pains grew in his chest. He pulled up his shirt to find deep bruises on his ribs. Sure he was superhuman or whatever, but this shit hurt. 

The Advil he took later that night hadn’t done shit for the pain. Every breath he took was like a knife to the lungs. He needed something to ease the pain, he’d figured a while ago he had an enhancemed metabolism. Peter could never really seem to get full, his stomach contorted and rumbling constantly. So if all he needed to help with the pain was something stronger, his first consideration would be alcohol. He followed his usual routine, except this time he’d drank a lot more.

But it hadn’t worked. The pain was just as unbearable and his head was just as clear.

After relying so heavily on alcohol these past few years, Peter was at a loss.

So he’d sucked it up, faked sick and stayed home from school to work on his costume. It turned out pretty great, he was really proud of it. He even figured out his super hero name.

Spider-Man.

Ya’ know, cause he was bit by a spider? Get it?

And just like a spider, Peter was going to create his own webs. And web-shooters too. If he could swing and pull and tie things with his webs, maybe he wouldn’t get hit by anymore cabs. 

His ribs had healed, noticeably faster than he thought a regular person might heal. So that’s nice, he guessed. And so now he’d spent his days at school developing a web formula, stealing chemicals from the lab to make it just right. After school he’d scrounge dumpsters for disregarded electronics to build his web shooters. And in the evenings he worked on putting together his invention.

It took Peter a month and a half to build the web-shooters. 

It took him only four days to get good at swinging from building to building, something he hadn’t even considered until he’d been out on his first patrol. It was only a little alarming how easily he convinced himself to step off the rooftop. 

Luckily he’d swung. And he hadn’t stopped swinging since.

Or at least until he got shot. 

The first few weeks he’d been relatively incident free. Helping old ladies cross the street, bike thefts and purse snatchers. He hadn’t had any major injuries since the cab incident. And he hadn’t thought about booze in weeks, so all in all he was feeling pretty great. 

He should’ve been paying more attention to the man, he should’ve been faster to help the woman he’d pushed to the alley floor up, he shouldn’t have assumed he wasn’t coming back. He shouldn’t have ignored the hairs on the back of his neck.

Peter had dropped down in front of the mugger, pointing his web shooter at his face and giving out some cheesy one liner. Like ‘your ass is grass and I’m the lawnmower’, or maybe it was ‘I hope you’re not lactose intolerant, because I’m about to serve you a double Mc-ass kicking’. He wasn’t sure, but the guy ran off, and then he helped the woman up. She was gushing out thank you’s, wiping tears out of her eyes. Then she froze, turned, and ran. Peter's senses blurred, he threw himself to the left. He felt an impact in his shoulder, but ignored it in favor of webbing up the asshole. He kicked the gun away from his grip, leaving him on the alley floor with no note to the cops.

It was a through and through. He peeled off his suit after collapsing on a rooftop he’d left his backpack on, black spots clouding his vision, his body racked with cold sweats. He’d been there a while, threw up a couple times, but finally he could stand again. Peter changed into his street clothes slowly and webbed the wound shut. Stumbling awkwardly down the side of the building and into the subway stations bathroom. He couldn’t make it into the stall, instead he opted for sliding down the far wall, ignoring the growing red stain on his shirt. He knew he needed to go home, but the pain was too extreme. 

“What the fuck happened to you?”

Peter peeked open his eyes, seeing a lanky looking old man. His clothes worn and filthy, his hair was cut short and his beard was patchy.

“M’ fine”, Peter slurred. The stranger slid down the wall next to him.

“You get mugged?”

Peter took in a shaky breath. “It hurts”. 

“Ah”. If Peter wasn’t in so much pain, he wouldn’t be anywhere near this guy. He heard a rummaging, and turned to see the mystery man pulling things out of a plastic bag.

Little baggies, and lighters. Spoons and then needles…

“Dope?”, was all the man said, he fixed Peter with a look. 

Granted Peter was never the best decision marker, but this definitely tops the cake for worst things he’s ever made a decision on.

Because Peter nodded his head.

And then shit hit the fan. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this while ignoring election coverage because omg


	4. Panicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter deals with his substance abuse problems.

Six months. Peter had been living with the Avengers for six months. Six shitty, lonely, confusing, fucked up months. And that's saying a lot because if there's anything Peter Benjamin Parker is an expert in, it's shitty, lonely, confusing, fucked up stuff. Even after all the time he’d spent here, it wasn’t home. And the hero’s that lived here weren’t his family. Hell he wasn’t sure they were even friends. Maybe that's why he’d overridden Karen's safety protocols, why should the Avengers have to come save his sorry ass? They didn't want him here anyway. And so an injured Spider-Man had dragged his way back all the way from Brooklyn to Manhattan.

Peter swung in a little too hot, hitting the roof and stumbling. Landing face first in the sharp gravel. Why the hell do they put gravel on rooftops, anyway? He flipped over, stretching out his back flat on the ground. A few satisfying, painful pops sounded, and his muscles burned. Peeling away his mask, Peter sucked in as much of the cold, October air that he could. But exhaling sent him into a bout of horrible coughing and sharp pains erupted throughout his chest. Oh right. He got stabbed. In the chest. 

“Fuck.”, he closed his eyes, about to call out for FRIDAY, but stopped. His ears picked up footsteps heading his direction. And an irregular heartbeat. 

Mr. Stark. Oh god. 

He was gonna be in so much trouble. Mr. Stark was gonna skin him, and then hand him over to the team. And then the team was gonna skin him again. Which is completely unfair, by the way. It’s not like Peter woke up this morning and thought to himself, ‘Hey! Ya’ know what would make today a great day? Getting myself fucking stabbed!’. That sounds peachy! I’ll have to go looking for my old heroine dealer, a grown man who refers to himself as ‘Tony Ballz with a z’, and happens to have an affinity for knives. 

It’s not like Peter meant to freeze when he saw Tony, he didn’t want to see the little baggy he was holding between his fingers, or the needles lying on the alley ground. But he did, he froze. Or, I guess, Spiderman froze. Which is a million times worse. And now here he is, bleeding out on the Towers roof, in excruciating pain. And you know what the most fucked up thing is? All he can seem to think about is the fucking heroin. Evil flashbacks fill his head. The feeling of the needle pressing into his arm, his heart thumping loudly and hands ice cold. The euphoria that spread over his skin, making him feel all warm and dreamy. The pain and sickness and despair of his withdrawals. The addiction taking over his entire life, his actual fucking soul. Peter wasn't sure if he even had a soul, but if so, he definitely killed it. That's what he did, he killed things. Peter killed things, and relationships, and people-

You’re spiralling, Peter. 

Quick, think about something else. Literally anything else. How about the images of your dead family members, or the look on Ned’s face when he first saw the track marks littering your arms. Feel the weight of your NA chip tucked in your back pocket. 

The rooftop door swings open.

“Jesus Parker.” Mr. Starks on his knees, hands pressing into Peter's chest. They meet eyes. If he hadn’t been on the verge of a mental breakdown right now, he’d be focused on the Iron Man themed pajama pants he was wearing, and the slippers. Now’s not the time, Peter. He filled that away for another day. Mr. Starks brow was furrowed, eyes red and breathing panicked. His look was worried, but mostly angry. Iron Man was kneeling next to him, hands coated in his blood, and he was scared. The guilt sinks in. Guilt for burdening his hero, guilt for sitting on the Avengers rooftop dreaming about heroin, guilt for always being such a screw up. Tears welled in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark”. Everything went black. He ignored Tony’s frantic orders to ‘just open your damn eyes, kid!’. He let himself slip away. 

——————————————————————————————————

He woke up to a persistent beeping, his wrist itchy and brain foggy. They must have him on the strong stuff. Something serious must’ve- oh. Fuck. It all hit him like a ton of bricks. The heroine, the stab wound, flashbacks, Tony hands covered in his blood. He shot up, ripping the iv out and stumbling off the bed, catching himself on the wall. He took a steadying breath. He needed to get outta here, no. He needed to call his sponsor, he needed to find a meeting before the thoughts started up again. The feeling of the dope flooding through his veins. He took handfuls of his hair, yanking. Trying to ground himself. Someone pushed open the door, but he didn’t bother looking up. Peter pushed his way past whoever it was, running into the hall. He looked around, before taking off in a wobbly sprint. He twisted and turned, getting slower, beginning to feel a dull ache in his chest. 

A stairwell door. Peter rushed through. 

Ow. He hit a wall. No, that's not right...he was on the floor? What happened? 

“Queens, you alright?”. A man crouched down, lifting his chin gently. Meeting his eyes was Steve Rogers. 

Out of all of the Avengers he’d met, Captain Rogers had definitely been the nicest to him. Not that they were friends or anything, Cap was still hung up on the whole ‘he’s just a kid, the Avengers don’t train child soldiers’ thing. They hadn’t spent a lot of time together, he always seemed to be off on some mission or in D.C. But the couple training sessions and morning runs they’d had together were all great. 

“Are you ok? FRIDAY, call Dr. Cho.” Peter stared up at him, his mind still trying to catch up. Heroine. Stabbed. Mr. Stark. 

“I gotta go, I- I need to go right now!” Tears flowed freely down his cheeks. He was crying in front of Captain America. But he couldn't bring himself to care, he just needed to leave. Steve lifted him to his feet. 

“If the doctors didn’t clear you to go to your room yet, you need to stay. You’re not looking to hot-“

His room? No, Peter needed to go home. He needed to get to Queens right now. He needed to find John.

Peter needed to go, right now. 

He shoved back Steve. Hard. Bolting up the stairway with a newfound source of adrenaline. One flight cleared. Two flights. Three. He could hear the super soldier running behind him. Four flights, then out the door. Running through the restricted lobby, and out to the ambulance parking. Around the corner, dashing towards the street. A car flys by, he screeches to a halt.

Which way? Subway. He needed to get on the train and head back to Queens. 

Peter would go find John, and everything would be okay. Well except the stabbing and Mr. Stark’s bloody hands-

Peter shivered. 

He lifts a bare foot off the curb, but a pair of arms wrap under his armpits. Peter gasps, kicking out his feet and trying to wiggle his way out. 

And Captain Americas talking to him, trying to calm him down, telling him every things ok, that he’s safe. He’s dragging him back to the building, and it hurts. His chest and the way his heels are scraping against the concrete. The tears are choking him and he can't breath out of his snotty nose, because he's sobbing. 

He sent his elbow down into Caps stomach hard. His grip loosened and he let out a gasp of surprise. Peter used this to his advantage, twisting out and around, landing a good punch across the man’s cheek. He had a bewildered look, obviously very surprised by Peters outburst and unsure what to do next. Peter stepped back.

“God, uhm- uh, I’m sorry, Mr. Captain America sir...sorry”.

He ran. And nobody chased after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raise ur hand if you like coleslaw


	5. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets it under control

He caught the train to queens, trying to ignore the strange looks people sent him. Nobody said a thing though, New York was definitely a mind your business kinda place. The memories of last night were eating him up inside. Mr. Stark was probably going to take the suit and ship him off to the Raft. He must be so angry, even angrier than that time Peter snuck into the lab, or when he found out he and Ned hacked the suit. He’d just have to add that to the list of things to unpack later. It was beginning to become a pretty long fucking list. It’s just Parker Luck, he figured.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He called his sponsor from the pay phone outside Delmars, dancing through the conversation as best he could without including the Spiderman parts. Peter told John he’d seen his old dealer in an alley, that they'd gotten in a fight and he ended up stabbed. He told him about lying on the concrete, and realizing that he wasn't thinking about his family, or the pain, or even of dying. Peter’s first thought had been about the drugs he’d seen, the needles scattered around. John listened, adding thoughts along the way. All positive and supportive. Praising him for reaching out and wanting to stay clean. Not letting himself relapse. Being strong for himself and his loved ones. 

That afternoon he‘d made his way to a meeting. Sitting in the dingy church gymnasium listening to others share their stories or feelings. Sharing a few of his own. He usually went to meetings every Wednesday afternoon. It was a youth NA group in Brooklyn. 

It was one of the conditions Fury had given him when he’d been cornered all those months ago. Apparently SHIELD was well aware of Peter's addiction, it had been a very big concern of theirs. A huge reason why'd they’d intervened in the first place. And so Peter was taken to a SHIELD medical facility to detox. The withdrawal was more painful than any bullet or stab wound had been, Peter got sweaty just thinking back on it. He and the eye patch guy had a big talk about his secret identity. Peter was glad he seemed to really value privacy, because the scary man was on board with his ‘don’t let the Avengers know he’s a junkie’ plan. As long as Peter kept up with NA, lived at the Tower, cooperated with training, and didn’t get fucked up again, SHIELD would keep that bit of information away from Earth's Mightiest Heroes.

“Peter?” The boy's head snapped up, Mr. Wyatt sent him a reassuring smile.  
“Is there anything you’d like to share today?” There’s so much he wished he could share, but he had important secrets to keep. So he’d stick with the simple stuff.

“The other day MJ-or uh, this girl from school came up to me, I don't remember exactly what she said. Something about decathlon practice or global politics, but when I saw her...my stomach, like, filled with butterflies. And that reminded me of, like- the drugs. So then I was picturing the needles and the, just everything. And ants were under my skin and I couldn't see straight...I ran off. Pucked in the bathroom.” Peter wondered what MJ would think if she knew why he’d embarrassed himself that day. He wondered if she’d be disgusted by the track marks on his arm. “I just want to be normal again”.

Peter walked himself out of the building, trudging around the side of the building and leaning up against the cool brick. He poked experimentally at his wound, hissing slightly at the sharp stab of pain. It wasn’t so bad, it probably wouldn’t even be hurting right now if he’d had some food. 

“You going rogue on me, Parker?” Peter groaned, swinging his head around to meet the man's eye. He tried to think of some witty sarcastic jab, but his brain was foggy, so he just shrugged.

“Stark is looking for you, or was looking for you.”

Peter looked at him, confused.

“The team was sent on an op. Shouldn’t take them long, so you better be in that Tower when the jet lands” 

Peter nodded, not having the energy to be upset he’d missed out on a potential mission. It’s not like the team would’ve let him tag along anyway.  
A silence set in and Peter squirmed uncomfortably.

“Do I need to have you piss in a cup? Don’t bullshit me, Parker”

Peter closed his eyes. His concern was justified. As harsh as the eyepatch guy sounded, Peter actually really liked him. He cared. 

“No sir. Just a tuff night. I’m not going to fuck up. Ever.”

His answer seemed to please the man, because when he looked up a moment later he was nowhere to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pen15


	6. The Raft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Avengers don’t really like Peter that much

Peter left that meeting and headed straight to a Bodega. Got some guy out front to get him a couple packs of Newport Menthols. He’d finally kicked the smoking months ago, but John had suggested them. A way to hold him over when it got bad. They helped clear his head. The man had offered him a colt 45 too, Peter pushed back the panic. Laughed him off, told him no thanks. He was trying to deal with Narcotic Peter right now, not Alcoholic Peter. Not that a single beer would make it past his enhanced metabolism. Actually not much booze could affect him anymore, unless he drank an extreme amount. He’d probably die of alcohol poisoning before he’d ever even feel tipsy. 

By the late evening he’d sat through a couple meetings, had a lot of good talks with John, and smoked through a lot of cigarettes. He was feeling better, not so close to exploding anymore. Suddenly the biggest thing on his mind was Mr. Stark. Oh, and Captain America. Definitely can't forget about punching Captain America.

He debated texting Mr. Stark. He felt like he was doing really well, getting back on track. He was bugging to get to school tomorrow, Ned and MJ always made him feel better. They gave him a reason to stay sober. So did Spider-Man. He definitely needed to get back out there and patrol. Peter didn't know where his suit was, actually no, scratch that. Peter knew for sure that Mr. Stark was holding onto it because he was in deep shit. Super big trouble. God, he was not looking forward to this conversation.

Peter opted to walk back to the tower, rather than take the subway. He wasn’t in a hurry. By the time he made it back it was nearly midnight. He stepped into the elevator and headed for the common floor. He was the only one with a room on the common floor. Everyone else’s was a floor above, and above their floor was the Starks penthouse. His room was back behind the kitchen and living areas, under a small lab area. Sort of like that cupboard Harry Potter slept in but bigger. But it was fine, he liked the room. It had a nice big bed and a cool desk. He didn’t have much in the way of decorations but there was a lot of space to spread out his projects. Right now he was working on building his own Nintendo switch, so he could play with Ned. But he kinda wished he had a window, it’d be so easy to sneak out if he did. Maybe that’s why his room wasn’t with the others. They all had windows. But he wasn’t really complaining anyway. The Avengers didn’t even want him on the team, so he was glad to be away from them. As soon as he stepped out the elevator doors, FRIDAYS voice rang out. Peter winced, his senses are freaking out right now.

‘Mr. Parker. Boss has requested you wait for him in the kitchen.’ Peter groaned. This was not going to be fun.

“How mad is he, like, on a scale from one to explosive anger?”, Peter asked as he started a pot of coffee.

‘The team has displayed extreme displeasure with your actions today’

“Oh god”, Peter groaned, pouring himself a cup of Peter-approved coffee. He sipped on it for a minute before burying his head in his arms. He’d just rest his eyes for a bit, that would help his pounding headache. He felt his muscles relax, and just as he was about to drift off-

Bam!

Peter jumped about a foot in the air, head whipping up. He shoved his hands forward pushing himself to the floor with a thud. He knocked his decaf over and the hot liquid began to pour onto a very unfortunate section of his pants. Peter let out a yelp, scooting himself away from the offending liquid and trying to steady his breath. He glanced over. 

Tony stood, arms crossed with a scrutinizing look on his face. An Iron Man helmet rocked slightly by his feet. Peter noticed the armour making its way to the elevator, he must have flown back after the mission.

“Hey Peter! Are you okay?”, Peter spit with a sarcastic tone, lifting himself to his feet.”Yeah Mr. Stark! I’m okay, thanks for asking. Just fell out of my chair and got hot coffee poured wayyyy too close to my balls`` He fixed Tony with a glare.

“Just when I think maybe you’ve toned down the stupid, you go and pull a stunt like this” Yeah time to shut down. Peter studied his feet and gave Tony a shrug. 

“I don’t want you here anymore than you want to be here. But you are here, Parker. And were responsible for making sure you stay alive”, He sounded frustrated, and that made Peter feel frustrated. “So when you hack into my multimillion dollar suit to remove safety protocols, and then you go out and get yourself fucking stabbed-”

“Shut up”. Peter didn't say it loud, but Tony heard just fine.

“Excuse me? If you want to cock an attitude in my Tower, then-”

So much for getting rid of his headache. God it hurt. He tugged at his hair with one hand, lifting his head to give the man yet another glare. “Then what? You’re gonna send me to the Raft? I’m gonna be locked up and- and experimented on?” Peter backed up against the wall behind him. He tugged harder at his hair, but a pair of hands stopped him. Peter shoved the hands away, “Don’t touch me!”

Mr. Stark stepped back with a huff, pinching the bridge of his nose. “For fucks sake, kid.”

“What’s going on?” The voice belonged to Sam Wilson.

Peter looked up to see the team making their way into the room. Still in their dirty gear and looking tired. It wasn’t often that everyone was together, but here they all were. Well minus Thor, he was off world. 

Great. Now he was gonna get yelled at by everyone. Peter let his eyes drift onto Captain Rogers, he ducked his head quickly. He hoped that the bruise on his jaw was from the mission.

Mr. Stark moved away from him and towards the Avengers. “Somebody needs to tell Fury this isn’t working out.” Peter's stomach fell. Oh god, he really was gonna get sent away. To the Raft. And he’d never see his friends again, or be Spider-Man again, and he’d be experimented on-

“Tony-“, Steve interjected.

“Show of hands, who here is a babysitter?” Nobody raised their hands, obviously. So Peter was panicking, his breaths short and fast. He willed the tears not to fall. Don’t cry in front of the Avengers. It was hard though, he didn’t want to be sent away. 

“No! I-“, all the heads turned to him. Mr. Stark was still angry, but everyone else just looked tired and uncomfortable. He looked over them all frantically.”I...I don’t, I’ll do better I promise, ok? I’m sorry Mr. Stark! Really sorry. I won't screw up again, honest. Please just- please don’t send me to the Raft!”. Despite his best efforts tears were falling. He wiped a hand across his face, and dared to meet Mr. Stark's eyes. He didn't look angry anymore, though. For the first time since Peter had met the man he looked like he didn't know what to say. Which wasn’t very reassuring. Everybody was quiet. Peter hung his head in defeat. 

Natasha broke through the tense air. “What the hell, Tony”, she deadpanned. 

“You told him about the Raft? You told him we’d send him to the Raft?” Steve shouted out. Peter looked between the adults, very confused.

“Of course not! Contrary to popular belief, I am not heartless!” Tony shot back, Peter noticed Bruce step out of the room, sending him a tight smile. So was he getting sent away or not?

Nat stepped towards Peter. “Who told you that?”

Peter gnawed on his bottom lip, feeling a lot smaller than usual and very embarrassed. “That dick with the eyepatch. Uh… I don’t know his name”

He heard Sam and Clint snickering. Tony jestered a hand towards Peter, still glaring at Steve.

“See? It wasn’t me, Capsicle. The dick with the eyepatch did it” Steve let out a huff, and took off in the direction of his own living quarters. 

Nat still seemed to be studying him closely. “You’re never going to be sent to the Raft, Peter. Don’t worry about that.”

He nodded, but he wasn’t very convinced. “Ok”

Tony turned his full attention back onto Peter. Pointing a finger at him. “Youre not off the hook. No suit until further notice.”

And as quickly as they’d showed up, they were gone again. Pete shuffled over to his room, collapsing into his bed. God living with these people is like playing mental gymnastics 24/7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, plzzzzzzzzz comment I like reading ur words

**Author's Note:**

> 5318008 lol


End file.
